


houses made of glass, castles made of sand

by irreputablyyours



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Character Analysis, Extended Metaphors, Gen, Introspection, M/M, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, unfortunately for him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-03
Updated: 2020-05-03
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:08:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23977987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irreputablyyours/pseuds/irreputablyyours
Summary: There’s precisely one shelf in his mind palace that has a lock.
Relationships: Irene Adler/Sherlock Holmes, Mycroft Holmes & Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes & Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes & Molly Hooper, Sherlock Holmes & Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 2
Kudos: 35





	houses made of glass, castles made of sand

i.

Officially, the shelf is known as ‘People’. Unofficially, it is ‘People Who Are not Entirely Terrible.’ Completely unofficially, in an unauthorised, you-broke-the-law-in-front-of-a-policeman type of way, it has the vague categorisation of ‘Feelings.’

It’s made up entirely of glass (oh, the _metaphors._ Sherlock would love to kill the literary mind. Violently.) There’s a padlock. There is no code - it opens at will - but Sherlock refuses to. 

Mostly. 

The lock swivels and falls open at his touch (Cerrosafe; alloy, low melting point.) The glass reflects light off of everything. The inside is blinding. There are six objects, each more horrifying than the next. 

ii.

A solid blue triangular prism with sharp edges sits the farthest left. He picks it up, occasionally. It is not one of the scarier ones. He’ll touch it and see; Mycroft, when Sherlock was five years old, beating him in a game of pool-noodle fencing. Mycroft, trying to convince him to play chess (idiot). Mycroft: _Caring is not an advantage._ Mycroft would hate his prism; hate it but be proud of himself for putting it there. (Dichotomy. Contrast. Even his brother has them, much as he dislikes it. He is, unfortunately for him, human.) 

(Feelings, Sherlock figures, are indefinable. Abstract. The mind balks at having to depict their existence literally. So they show up - differently, as stupid shapes in a lost room in the backwaters of his mind.) 

Its edges are scratched from the many times Sherlock had thrown it against the wall, took a hammer to it, tried to set it on fire (the melting point of glass is a thousand seven hundred and twenty-three degrees Celcius). It’s the one he’s had the longest, since his mind palace was barely an apartment.

It’s odious, detestable, cold enough to have frost. But he’s had it his whole life. Loathe as he is to admit it, he’s got used to it. It’s the easiest one, the one that never changes. 

iii.

Next to that lies a cube. It is more temperamental, swinging between a disgusting chartreuse to a dim red, occasionally settling on a more amiable yellow. It’s small, has a tendency to roll around and get lost between his fingers. Few things are contained within; the sharp scent of the morgue, Molly passing him a tool when he needs one, a cup of coffee placed just within reach. The look on her face as she helped him fake his death.

Simple. He’d been surprised it existed at all, but it’s never caused him much trouble. It’s... worrying, but still, the smallest of carnivores. 

iv.

The next one is more concerning. A sphere that barely fits into his hand, its colours shift sometimes, turning a baby blue or a soft white, but primarily remaining mauve edging into pink. 

When it first appeared he was _horrified._ He’d got used to Mycroft’s odious prism, but he’d never thought there would be anyone who could _cause_ a shape to appear in the drawer. It was only out of curiosity that he checked the shelf all those years ago, brushing aside the dust to find the sphere - then about the size of a marble. Realistically, it should’ve rolled, but it stayed stable, left not a track in the dust.

It was strange, that of all people the one who spoke to him was a woman who made an atrocious amount of biscuits and never seemed to think any of his insults were particularly witty, but he supposes that’s perhaps the only way most people _would_ tolerate him. Even knowing this, Mrs. Hudson’s sphere was always a bit warm to the touch, exuding memories of her bringing up (still atrocious) biscuits and smiling at him with amusement (why, he never understood. But she did it anyway. _People._ ) 

v. 

Lestrade is straightforward. Sherlock can understand his attachment to anyone who provides him with cases, although it really shouldn’t have resulted in the consistently green, flat rectangle that lies on the shelf. He’ll look at it and see; his first case with the police, a man in a uniform appearing halfway through Sherlock’s third overdose. (Sherlock; weak. Attached to the first person that comes to his aid. Mycroft again; _Caring is not an advantage._ )

It’s consistent, at least. Cold to the touch and never threatens to get larger. Small mercies. 

vi.

The next one is much worse. Almost _the_ worst.

The Woman has a lukewarm pyramid that varies from blood red to cold grey. Sherlock will look at it and see; the fixation of her gaze, the way her hands lingered at his wrists, the phone he kept in his pocket for months. He will think of elevating heartrates, and little else. 

That one stays hidden, pushed behind Mrs. Hudson’s sphere and Mycroft’s stupid prism. She was-

( _a genius, brilliant, beautiful, a key, but not his, not in the way-_ )

-a distraction. Best to be avoided. 

vii. 

He wishes he could avoid the last one. 

It’s...not a heart, which, thank god, he’s sure his brain would explode out of the sheer tackiness of it all (shut up, Moriarty). A six-pronged star. He could fit it in the palm of his hand, if it weren’t searingly hot, leaving hot streaks shooting up his arms whenever he touches it. It’s been every colour that trichromatic vision can perceive, but mostly it flutters between silver, light blue, and light red. (Sometimes it’s gold. He’s never seen that before.) 

He doesn’t like to pick it up. It feels like his universe is warped when he does, like everything he usually values has fallen to the floor and completely ceased to matter. It’s...not like the other ones. He can pick up Molly’s cube and still see straight, can touch Mrs. Hudson’s sphere and still work through a case. 

But he picks up that star and it’s all he sees; John, shooting a man for him. John, at the pool, throwing his life on the line for Sherlock’s. John, grabbing his wrist, clenching his coat as Sherlock faked his death. 

Also; John, making tea. Smiling at his jokes. Watching movies with Sherlock even though Sherlock complained every minute. 

Sherlock has dropped the star an innumerable amount of times. It is too much to hold it (he hates, _hates_ it; he is Sherlock Holmes, he should be able to handle an imaginary star. But John; his Archilles heel. Painfully obvious.) 

(He wishes he could leave it, throw the star out the window and never look back. But he's tried ( _god, he's tried)_ and it doesn't work. John is; a part of him now. As much use in trying to cut him out as in trying to cut out his own heart.) 

( _Metaphors._ Damn Moriarty, to places worse than hell.) 

Sometimes when he glimpses the star he’ll see things that _haven’t_ happened. John, biting his lip across a table from Sherlock at Angelo’s, saying, _thanks for the date._ John, holding his hand and not just to check for a pulse. John, _thisclose_ , a finger on Sherlock’s lips. 

Another reason Sherlock doesn’t pick up John’s star; he’s afraid of what he’ll see.


End file.
